Just admit it, John
by Incense92
Summary: what will it take to get John to admit his true feelings about Sherlock? Possibly almost losing him again, maybe? but what happens when its Sherlock being the one to possibly lose his friend. fluffy lovey dovey/angsty/friendshipy
1. An old friend

"Sherlock," John moaned as he rolled over on the couch. "you're phone keeps ringing."

"Yes, i know," replied the tall brunette sitting on the other side of the room with no intent of getting up. Holmes was deep in thought and had been sitting in the same spot, unmoving, for hours.

Watson was kind enough to stay up through the wee hours of the morning just in case his partner had something to say.

John glimpsed at his watch, "It's 3 am, it must be something important."

Sherlock, still unmoving, fixed his jade green eyes on Watson, "oh no. Nothing important. Nothing important ever happens anymore." After Sherlock faked his death, he and John both decided that they should take a long break from solving cases and staying out of the public eye. "Feel free to answer it though."

"if it rings one more time, i might just throw it at that lazy head of yours."

It was quiet for a moment. "John." Sherlock said, rather than ask like a normal person would do to get one's attention.

"what." John had also learned the art of not implying question marks when talking to Sherlock.

"Where you upset when I died?" Finally Sherlock turned his head toward Watson, but still left any emotion out of his voice.

John sat up and furrowed his brow. He hated talking about this. He avoided the question, "You didnt die. so what would i have been upset about?"

"oh you know, just the fact that i disappeared for months and months," Sherlock got up and started to pace. "you seemed pretty upset standing there at my tomb stone." He paused and looked at his partner.

"I was touched at how beautiful the stone was," John stated sarcastically. "and your name was engraved so delightfully i couldnt help but get emotional at the beauty of it...oh come on, i knew you werent dead."

"yes, of course," Sherlock simply agreed.

John got up and proceeded to go upstairs. "but really, im a man of war, ive learned to not get close to people and most of all ive learned to avoid any kind of pain from one's death." Even talking about his friend's "death" truly did upset him, but he refused to show Sherlock just how much. He was afraid of showing him that he really was attached. Maybe too attached. "Good night, Sherlock. You should turn your brain off and get some sleep too." Just then Sherlock's phone started ringing. "Oh dear God." Watson turned around and answered it. "Hello?"

"Ah! my dear Watson!" exclaimed a strangely familiar voice. "I figured you would answer. That Sherlock, what a lazy fellow." This voice...it was so familiar...it sent chills down John's spine even though he couldn't put a face to his voice. "oh come on, you remember meeeee, your old buddyyyy."

"Who is this?" John's voice had a tremble in it. Sherlock stopped moving and fixed his eyes on John.

"You know who this is," said the voice. "remember i strapped a bomb to your chest?" John's heart stopped. "Or maybe this will ring a bell."

"John." Sherlock's voice was quiet but urgent. John looked over to see 3 red dots dancing around Sherlock's body. John couldn't breathe.

"oh goody, it seem that you remember now."

"Moriarty." John whispered in horror.

The voice laughed, "Yes, that is my name. And it just turns me on so much to hear you say it with such fear and disgust."

"what do you want?" John asked almost desperately. He hated this man; hated him so much for taking his beloved Sherlock away from him for so long. "Sherlock hasn't done anything. He's not solving any more cases. Just leave us alone." John was starting to panic. He wouldn't be able to live if he took Sherlock away for real this time. He wouldn't want to live without him.

"It's not Holmes i want, he's so boring now. I want you, Watson." John's heart stopped again. "But dont worry, i wont kill you, i just need to talk."

"Then talk to me now, im listening," John said as he wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. He took a glance over at Sherlock to see that the red dots still moved over his body. John was shaking now, where the hell did Moriarty, who obviously shot himself, come from? But then again, Sherlock died right in front of him too...

"No, that would be so dull," Moriarty sighed. "come see me. im at the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away. Come alone, without your little friend. or else he'll be dead for real this time. Ta Ta!" and he hung up.


	2. not again

_"No, that would be so dull," Moriarty sighed. "come see me. im at the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away. Come alone, without your little friend. or else he'll be dead for real this time. Ta Ta!" and he hung up._

* * *

Jonh couldnt speak a word.

Suddenly, Sherlock jump up, "Brilliant!"

"What?"

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock exclaimed grabbing his long black coat and deep purple scarf. "finally something interesting."

"Sherlock..."

"Come on, John, lets go." Sherlock raced to the door.

"Sherlock."

"I wonder what he has up his sleeve this time."

"Sherlock!"

"Nothing to worry about, John, im sure he's not really after you...you are quite dull after all."

"SHERLOCK!" John's shout startled himself. He cleared is throat and looked down. "Sherlock, you're staying here."

"Why." Sherlock glared at the Doctor. "And whats all this yelling about? Are you mad i called you 'dull' again?"

"No," John cleared his throat again. "You clearly heard what he said. I have to go, alone. and you stay here."

"no." with that, Sherlock dashed down the stairs, headed out the door and slammed it behind him. Panic grew in John. He went to grab his coat but tripped in the process.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" He had to stop him. He wasnt going to let his beloved partner slip away from him again. He forgot all about his coat and ran down the stares and out of the front door. Sherlock was no where to be seen. "Of course..." John muttered. He began to run in the direction of the Chinese restaurant, all the while thinking about what would happen if Sherlock were to be killed for real this time...

About half way there, John had to stop to catch his breath; he couldnt tell if it was because he was tired or because he was starting to have a panic attack. "Sherlock!" He gasped. "come back, Sherlock!" He leaded against a cold brick wall, unable to breathe. John couldnt help but think that his dear Sherlock was already gunned down be snipers. "No...Sherlock...I'm coming" He couldnt give up. This was Sherlock Holmes we were talking about, surely he couldnt be dead this soon. John caught his breathe and continued running.

Finally he reached the restaurant. It was closed. "that's right..." John muttered to himself. "Its 3 am." Of course it would be closed. But where was-

"Actually..." John heard that voice coming from a neighboring ally way. "its 3:23 am."

John ran over to the entrance, "Where's Sherlock?" He didnt dare go into the dark; who knew what lied in the shadows.

"He's here, of course," Moriarty sang. He didnt show himself. He still hid himself in the shadows.

"Prove it," John said, seemingly calmly. He could make out two figures; one tall one standing and rocking with excitement, and one extremely short one, who was clearly on his knees. The doctor couldnt see any faces, but he figured who was standing and who was kneeling. "Go on," He said, still hiding any emotion. "Prove that's Sherlock you have there."

"I'd love to," Moriarty giggled.

John regretted his words, "No wai-"

John then saw the figure reel his leg back and kicked the kneeling figure, knocking him over and causing him to let out a low, deep baritone groan.

"Sher...Sherlock?" It was him. John couldnt take this. Sherlock was yet again in the hands of his number one enemy. He had to save him.

"I wouldnt take one more step, if i were you," Moriarty's voice was now dark, and threatening. His mood swings really put John off. He had never met anyone so crazy before. Even Holmes himself was not that psychotic.

John swallowed. "What do you want?"

"Run away John," He heard Sherlock gasp. "He'll kill you."

"SHUT UP!" Moriaty furiously shouted and gave Sherlock another kick to the stomach. "And dont move, Dear, John." He warned as Watson was about to storm into the shadows. "I just need to know one thing."

"And what's that?" Jonh asked, letting a little more panic show. He'd do anything right about now to get Sherlock back.

Moriarty made a low, disturbing sound in his throat. A laugh, perhaps. "How do you _feel_ about Sherlock?"

"What?" John asked feeling as if the seriousness had left the situation, which made it even more scary because Moriarty is always serious.

"What?" Sherlock mirrored his flat mate's words.

"I am serious, you know," Moriarty started to rock again. "What does Sherlock really mean to you? I _need_ to know, your answer."

John grinned and gave a simple answer, "He's my best friend, of course." Sherlock was way more that just a mere best friend to him, but he made a vow to himself that he would never let the detective know that. As much as Sherlock could pick up from just looking at someone's outfit, he was still pretty naive when it came to human emotions and John was not about to let his guard down and show his partner exactly what they were.

Moriarty mad a disgusting noise that reminded John of how people try to sound like a 'wrong answer' buzzer. It looked as if he was grabbing something from behind him.

John wished he could see more than just a sillouete of what was happening, "What was-"

"wroooong answer!" moriarty sang so gleefully. "Looks like you liiiieeeed" he giggled. "It's a shame i dont give second chances."

John heard a gun cock..._click-click_...The blood ran from John's face, "you cant be serious...?"

"Oh i am," Moriarty pointed the gun at Sherlock. "Your own pride is going to get your _beloved_ killed."

"No wait, let me-"

"NO SECOND CHANCES!"

_**BANG!**_


	3. Waisted sentiments

**oh i have no idea where im going with this now. lol. i think i had original intentions but those have gone out the window. Trying to keep the characters' actual personalities but with this kind of story that's clearly going to be impossible, if not extremely dificult. err...no action really, in this part..kinda fluffy angsty friendshipy kinda thing. lol. some suggestions would be lovely, as i really honestly have no idea where im going with this. **

* * *

_John heard a gun cock...click-click...The blood ran from John's face, "you cant be serious...?"_

_"Oh i am," Moriarty pointed the gun at Sherlock. "Your own pride is going to get your beloved killed."_

_"No wait, let me-"_

_"NO SECOND CHANCES!"_

_**BANG!**_

* * *

John felt unsteady as if his knees would give out at any moment. He had just watched his best friend die right in front of him...again. Of course he still could only make out just the shadows still, one clearly slumped over, unmoving...dead. Dead. John mustered all his will power to not lose his senses and he reached back into his waist band and grabbed hold of his old, trusty friend. John was going to make sure Moriarty was dead for good this time. Oh yes, he'll make sure of it. Yet half way through the drawing of his pistol, he saw something move in the corner of his eye.

The dead silhouette jumped up, "Wait, John!" Sherlock's voice. Sherlock's not-dead-voice. "Don't shoot."

The gun dropped out of John's hand and his arms dropped to his side. He felt as if he had just been part of some kind of...Surely Sherlock wouldnt... "What?"

just then the two figures walked out into view. It was still very dark but John could make out the face of his still living flatmate and his brother.

"Mycroft." John breathed. It was neither a question or a statement, just a verbal observation and realization of the situation. John could see where this was going; he stood up straight, arms back, chest out, heart guarded. Army John.

"You can relax, John," Sherlock stated walking a little closer to his hardened war doctor. "Let me explain."

"Actually," Mycroft cleared his throat. "I'd rather not be here for that. I think it would be rather unpleasant to see how your stupidity has destroyed something else."

"Destroyed?" Sherlock questioned his brother who was already half way to his car. "What could I have possibly dest-"

"Sherlock." John's voice was sharp, even, and quite calm." The two brothers looked at him.

"Sorry, John," Mycroft mumbled as he closed the door to his car. It pulled off and suddenly John and Sherlock were standing there, alone in the ally way.

Sherlock looked back at his colleague but couldn't come to any conclusions as to what he was feeling. "John?" The soldier didnt move. He didnt let any emotion cross his face nor did he move from this stiff, army stance that screamed silence in body language.

"John." Sherlock stepped closer. He was now only inches away. While Sherlock was clearly looking down into the rigid man's eyes he felt as if John was the one looking down on him. His eyes were so hard, so cold, and so, so dark.

"Care to explain, Sherlock?" John's voice held no no shake nor emotion; his mind couldn't comprehend what emotion to signal out anyways.

Sherlock cleared his throat a little, "John, I was-"

"If the word 'bored' utters out of your mouth I'll pick this gun up and blow your bloody head off," His voice was quiet, deep and seemed surprisingly serious.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. John was really angry this time. But why? Why would he be this upset? "You're angry." He stated.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Listen to me..."

"I am." Yes, John was all ears. He wanted to hear what his good old friend has to say. "Just tell me why."

Sherlock stepped back a bit and looked John straight into his eyes with that piercing gaze of his, "Data."

"Data?" John snorted. He finally broke his military pose and folded his arms around himself and balled his fist up. "What kind of data?"

"Human emotions," Sherlock started. "Sentiment stuff."

"Right, well," John sighed. "What data did you load into that hard drive of yours?"

"You care about me," Sherlock's mouth twitched a little as he said this. Sherlock always figured, always came to the conclusion that yes, John did care but he still needed more proof.

"Really?" John was starting to lose his composure. "Thought you might have figured that out a long time ago."

Sherlock stepped closer again, "I had to be sure."

John was astounded at the fact that Sherlock was still unsure of the fact that he at least cared about him. But this was Sherlock. He tried to relax a little; Sherlock would never understand what true friendship really is. Yes, he might have faked his death and put his own life at risk for John, but it was probably only because Sherlock would miss the praise that he always received by him. But that was probably it. He knew this was the case for a while, he knew that he would probably never get Sherlock to understand how much he did care, let alone be cared for by him. Yet these silly little emotions ran wild in John's heart anytime he was around his consulting detective. He knew these little crush like feelings were stupid but really, all he wanted was to at least be acknowledged as a true friend by Sherlock.

"John?"

"I just need to know one thing," John said, finally starting to loosen up. "How? That was clearly Moriarty's voice."

"No it wasn't." Sherlock huffed. He started walking back toward Baker street. "Come on then, John. It's getting a little cold."

"Then how?" John asked, falling into step with him.

Sherlock grunted a little bit annoyed at the fact that it was not obvious to his partner. "With your condition and the added trauma that Moriarty added on time after time, you simply just believed it was his voice."

"Oh, ok." Then it clicked, "Wait..what?" He stopped and glared at Sherlock who also stopped and turned to look at him. "You used my PTSD? You used my disorder, my pain in this little experiment of yours?" Somehow this made what Sherlock did seem so much worse.

"Well, yes," He curtly nodded. He didn't see any problem with this of course.

"Moriarty was wrong," John whispered after a moment.

"What?" Sherlock didnt know what he was talking about.

"Moriarty," John repeated louder; he was almost yelling. "He always called me your pet. But no, Sherlock, I'm not even that. I'm your lab rat." He always kept Sherlock entertained, constantly giving him his insight, and always, always being apart of his experiments. Whatever his heart felt toward Sherlock, love, adoration, friendship, whatever it was it had all been in vain. "You just wont ever get it, will you?" He was completely shouting now, hands thrown up in the air and everything. He didnt care what Sherlock read on him anymore. "I'm waisting my time." He sighed, turned the opposite direction and briskly walked away.

"Jonh?" Sherlock was confused. Why was John acting this way? He didnt see him as a pet or a lab rat; not exactly at least. He partner was still walking away. "Jonh!"

Jonh kept walking; he was tired. He wasnt going to waist his feelings and 'sentiments' on someone who wouldnt care or didnt even have the capability to returning such things.

Sherlock just watched him walking away, still really not getting it. He simply thought John was just being childish and he'd let it go after a while. He finally started walking back to his flat believing that John would come back by morning.

How wrong he would be.


	4. The tables turn

_Sherlock just watched him walking away, still really not getting it. He simply thought John was just being childish and he'd let it go after a while. He finally started walking back to his flat believing that John would come back by morning._

_How wrong he would be._

* * *

It's been three days and Sherlock had not heard anything from John. No texts, no calls, and he hadn't come home once. Sherlock would know; he hadn't slept since he got back home that night.

He stood in front of the window plucking away at his violin strings. He didn't understand why John was so upset. This wasn't the first time that he had used him in an experiment and this certainly wasn't the first time that he had been extremely cold and inhuman toward him. Did John really think he was his lab rat? Sherlock didn't see him that way. He saw John as his partner, his source of constant praise and his best friend. No matter how much Sherlock would deny it, he had allowed John into his heart. He cared for John more than anything, even his work to which he was 'married'. So what did that make him? More than a friend? A lover? Sherlock didn't know. He understood the science and chemistry behind human emotions and feelings, but didn't know how to handle them when they finally took over his heart. He wanted to talk to John about it but he needed to be absolutely sure that John really cared, that John loved him. That's why he pretended to be captured by Moriarty; he knew he wouldn't be able to hide any emotions in his reaction. God, no he didn't hide a single one. Fear, anxiety, pain, worry, loss, aguish; they were all written on John's face in that moment after the gun went off. He wasn't really dead though, so why was John so upset? Sherlock just didn't understand and John wouldn't explain. He needed to talk to him. He picked up his phone and sent a text.

**I need to talk to you. Come home. **

**SH**

He thought for a minute and then sent another text.

**I'm sorry.**

**SH**

He knew John would want an apology. Even though ninety percent of the time Sherlock didn't know why he was apologizing, he would if it meant John would forgive him and let whatever it was go. His phone buzzed. It was from John.

**I'm busy.**

**Doing what?**

**SH**

What could John possibly be doing? It's been three days.

**New case. I've got a body. I'll send a picture. **

Sherlock was confused a little bit. A new case? Did Lestrade have John look at a body without him? His phone buzzed again and he downloaded the attachment.

The picture was dark; underexposed but he could still make out the body. It was a man tied to a chair and slumped over. He was short; roughly 5 foot 5. Not skinny, not fat; a healthy weight. Square face, sandy blonde hair. God-awful fashion sense; brown shoes, jeans, and a beige jumper with the collar of a red button up shirt peeking out. _Wait_.

Those clothes…that hair…that face…Sherlock finally saw it. Sitting slumped over in the chair with his arms and legs tied to it was none other than Dr. John H. Watson.


	5. missing pieces

**Thinking about changing the title to "Misunderstandings" lol. anyways, 5th part :) reviews and suggestions are always appreciated...**

_Those clothes…that hair…that face…Sherlock finally saw it. Sitting slumped over in the chair with his arms and legs tied to it was none other than Dr. John H. Watson._

* * *

Sherlock scoffed. "Clever, John. Clever." He tossed his phone on the table and sat down in his chair with his violin. Sherlock wasn't stupid; he knew John was just trying to get back at him. _Or was he?_ Sherlock froze momentarily. Was that doubt? No, Sherlock _never_ doubted and was _never_ wrong. At least, in his own mind he wasn't. He pushed the annoying _feeling_ away and went back to plucking away a little tune. He wished he could go back to solving cases.

**-Meanwhile-**

John was hanging on the edge of consciousness, left alone in a small, dark, wet, musky room bound to a chair. His body was bruised and broken and he was terrified. Who had kidnapped him and why? He knew it was someone who was clearly after Sherlock, but _who_? The whole plan was too unorganized and awkward to be one of Moriarty's men. It felt as if whoever had kidnapped him didn't really know what he was doing and simply just used chloroform to knock him out.

_Dull._

John grunted at the thought of that's exactly what Sherlock would think of this kidnapping; dull. For him anyways. John, on the other hand, was in anything-but-dull pain and the hint of a concussion slithered into his brain, constricting any thoughts that might actually lead him to figuring out what exactly was going on. One thing he knew for sure though; Sherlock would save him.

_Right?_

**-Sherlock-**

It's been a full 24 hours since he received that picture from "John". How long was he going to play this game? Sherlock was painfully bored. Maybe if he just played along...No, that's what John would want; to play the game. To show he was worried about John. Normally he would be; but he would never admit it nor would he entertain the idea by proving it right in front of him. Sociopaths don't worry about their friends. Then again, sociopaths don't _have_ friends.

Sherlock liked the title "sociopath" and he would do just about anything to keep that label. However, anyone who really knew Sherlock for a while had figured out his behavior was nothing more than a symptom of a mild case of Asberger's Syndrome. He'd even prefer the terms psychopath and freak than be seen as..._autistic_. Thus making him the cold, heartless prick that everyone eventually gave up on.

_Except for John._

He growled and started quickly pacing back and forth. Why had John been so different? Why did he have to _praise_ his intelligence? Why did he have to take care of him? Why did he have to stay with him through it all? That's the thing though; John didn't _have_ to do any of that. John _chose_ to. Which inevitably caused Robot Sherlock to grow a heart and _fall_ for him. Sherlock shook his head; he couldn't possibly fall for anyone, he was asexual. He bitterly laughed at the thought. He knew that had nothing to do with falling for anyone. Asexuality was just the absence of a sex drive; no desire or need for intimate physical activities. Being asexual was purely physical; it had nothing to do with the inability to like or love or fall for someone's mind or personality. Which is exactly what happened.

Sherlock was disgusted with himself. How could allow for such a thing to happen? These feelings were so complex and ever changing. Alone was so much better, so quiet, so peaceful, so...

_Boring._

That was it; Sherlock had enough of his ridiculous thoughts. His mind was betraying him; his defenses were weakening. He needed sleep. He stormed off to his room and dramatically fell on his bed. This was all so stupid. Maybe when he woke up things would just go back to being normal again. He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

**-John-**

John's eyes snapped open. He couldn't tell if he had been sleeping or simply just passed out. Either way, he was still very much exhausted, very much in pain, and very much disoriented. What time was it, how long was he out?

"Awake now are we?" A voice called from the other room. John didn't recognize it and sighed with relief. That little irrational fear of it being Moriarty vanished. "Sherlock still hasn't replied." The man sounded extremely irritated. "Are you sure this guy really cares about you?" John was a little hurt at his words. He was even more hurt at the fact that he really didn't know the answer to that.

"What..." John tried to speak. His voice was hoarse and dry. "What do you want from Sherlock?"

"It's not Sherlock I want."

"Than why me?" John was confused. If he didn't want Sherlock, what would he need John for?

"Don't get me wrong," The man said. John could hear him walking around the room. "Sherlock is the key, yes, but I need to get into Scotland Yard." The police? What could he possibly need from the police? "From all the stories I've heard, I was under the impression that Mr. Holmes would do anything for his side kick. Looks like they were wrong."

"Why..." John breathed, feeling close to passing out again. "The police?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The man asked seriously. "They're investigating a murder. They have evidence against me. I need it to disappear and I was so sure Sherlock would have made that happen if his friend's life was at stake." That was it?

_That was it?_

It was just a simple murder case, with a stupid, simple murderer trying to escape. There was no big master plan. This didn't even directly involve Sherlock. It was so simple, so amateur that if Sherlock were even trying he would have picked up on that.

So Sherlock wasn't trying at all? The fact that John had been missing for God knows how long and Sherlock wasn't even putting forth an effort into trying to help him just crushed his heart.

Maybe it was because he showed too much emotion when Sherlock scared him the other night. Maybe Sherlock had figured out that John was more than a little attracted to him. Maybe he was repelled by the thought; maybe he was glad John was gone. John didn't know, but he did know that if he ever made it out of there alive that he would shut off his feelings just as Sherlock had always done. He would stop these silly little feelings. He would stop giving Sherlock so much attention and affection. As long as he could keep Sherlock as his best mate he promised to lock away any other emotions. The combination of pain, exhaustion, a concussion, and his heart being crushed was just too much for him. Finally, he started slipping back into unconsciousness.

"Sherlock..."


End file.
